The Age of Dragons
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Camelot's golden age has flowered. The balance is nearly healed. And the time of dragons is not yet over. Not if Arthur has anything to say about it, that is. Ah, the things one does for one's consort.


"Ah, Merlin, there you are! I've been looking for you."

The Court Sorcerer and Crown Consort of Camelot raises his head from the grimoire he's studying to eye up the King that's striding towards him with an all-too-pleased smile on his face. "Really?" Merlin arches an eyebrow and closes the grimoire, careful of the cracking binding. "And why is that?"

"I've a gift for you. Come with me," Arthur says, urging the warlock from his chair and out of his workshop, leading him through the castle.

"A gift? What sort of gift?" Merlin has learned from experience to be somewhat wary of Arthur's 'gifts,' especially given his sense of humour. And even knowing that Merlin could call lightning from the sky and fry his royal arse, Arthur has never once hesitated to pull elaborate pranks on his consort, especially now that they're on equal footing. Not to mention a lifetime of playing subtle games of intrigue with peers of the realm has given Arthur the ability to sound perfectly pleasant and courteous whilst planning something wholly devious.

"The sort that's a surprise."

_Oh, bugger me,_ Merlin despairs mentally.

His wariness only climbs up higher when Arthur steers him into an empty chamber. The only thing in the room is a large wooden trunk. "What is that?"

"Your surprise." Arthur gives him a friendly yet firm nudge inside, then turns and shuts the door, closing the two of them into the chamber alone.

Merlin frowns a little. There's a persistent ringing noise in his ears. He reaches up and wriggles a finger in his ear, but the sound doesn't go away. He stares at the trunk warily, not wanting to go near it. He doesn't hear any kind of growling or hissing coming from inside, so he doesn't think there's any kind of animal inside, but that's hardly the worst thing that could be in a trunk that size. He levels a _look_ at his king. "Arthur."

"Merlin."

"What's in the trunk?"

The king smiles, sweet as a candied apple. "Don't you want to open it?"

"Not particularly, no." That damn ringing is back again, but he ignores it.

For a moment, they're caught at an impasse, waiting to see who blinks first. Merlin, however, has the patience of a bloody _saint_ after ten years of dealing with him, and he'd stand there until Judgement Day arrived. Finally, Arthur heaves a great, long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Since you want to be that way, _I'll_ open it for you," he says. He steps over to the trunk and undoes the latches. "Honestly, Merlin, you'd think that you'd be a bit more grateful. All the trouble I went through to get these. Sent all across the Strait and everything." Giving Merlin that damned _smile_ again, Arthur lifts the lid of the trunk.

Merlin's knees almost buckle, and he staggers a half step in shock.

"You're not going to faint, are you?" Arthur asks, only somewhat teasing, and he actually half-lifts one arm as if to assist.

Merlin only squeaks a little. He sinks to his knees in front of the trunk, mindless of the dusty floor and his fine new robes. The inside of the trunk is thickly padded with thick cloth and silks to avoid any damage to its contents—seven glossy dragon eggs. They're not Great Dragon eggs, they're smaller and more oval than tear-shaped, and they're in all hues of colour. But they are still dragon eggs, and they are alive. The ringing noise in his ears, it's coming from the eggs, calling to him. He pulls the closest egg out of its silk wrappings, cradling it in both hands.

It's about the size of a small melon and a rich golden-brown colour like summer honey, flecked with sparkling bronze. The shell is smooth as newly blown glass, and it warms in his hands. He can't tell if it's his magic or actual physical sensation, but the egg seems to thrum. "Where did you...?" He doesn't even finish the sentence, trailing off.

Arthur smiles, crouching on his heels beside him. "There are no dragon eggs left in Albion. But Albion is not the only kingdom in the world. I sent across the Strait, messengers to every territory that would let us through their borders," he replies, peering at the eggs. With Camelot's treasury full to overflowing in these years of prosperity, he'd been prepared to pay handsomely for any of them. He imagined that bringing dragons back would be worth the expenditure. Surprisingly, most had been given nearly free of charge, more interested in trade than anything else. It's an interesting proposition, one he'd bring before the council.

Merlin shakes his head in amazement, cradling the egg to him as he would cradle a newborn babe. "How...how long have you had these?" He's never travelled beyond the Strait, but he knows that it must have taken months to travel to the various territories, hunting for dragon eggs.

"All together? Not long. The last of the envoys only made it back this past month." Arthur reaches over and runs a fingertip across one of the eggs. "I think I like this one the best. It reminds me of you." The eggshell is the blue of cornflowers, speckled with darker purple.

Swiping a hand over his eyes to brush away the tears threatening on his lashes, Merlin chortles, "Careful, sire, your sensitive side is showing."

Arthur cuffs his ear lightly, smirking. "Shut up. I'm giving you seven dragons, if that doesn't tell you how much I love you, I don't know what will."

He looks up at his king with a small smile. Arthur doesn't often say it so plainly, preferring his more subtle ways of showing it, amazing from a man who doesn't know the meaning of the word subtlety on any given day. "I love you, too."

Arthur only hums a little, glancing away, but the tips of his ears are pinker than before. "Are they all okay? I mean, are they still...alive?" he asks. "I know that Aithusa's egg was four centuries old, but some of these are...a bit older than that."

"Yes, yes. They're perfect. All perfect." Merlin can hear them all singing their own delicate, thriving songs, not a single sour note amongst them.

"When will you hatch them?"

He sits forward and carefully replaces the egg in the silk swaddling. "I need to call Aithusa and Kilgharrah first. They deserve to see this."

At that, the king lets out a groan. "Gods, must you? Aithusa I don't mind so much, but I'm still not happy with that other bloody lizard," he grumbles. He's still smarting over Kilgharrah's assault on Camelot years ago, and Merlin doesn't believe he's ever been forgiven for tricking Arthur into thinking he'd slain a dragon, either.

"Yes, I must. Come now, my king, be graceful. Just think of him as a visiting dignitary and put on your airs and graces."

Another put-upon groan, but he reaches out and traces a fingertip over another egg, this one a bright coppery-red with streaks of yellow. Pendragon colours. "Can I watch?" he asks, looking to Merlin with an almost boyish eagerness. "When you hatch them, could I watch? I wouldn't get in the way. I mean, they're not going to imprint on me like ducklings, will they?"

Merlin laughs. "No, they won't. I'm the Dragonlord, they'll focus on me." Quickly, before the blond gets the chance to react, he leans forward and kisses the tip of Arthur's nose. "Thank you, sire."

"You're such a _girl_ sometimes, Merlin," Arthur grumbles, but he's still smiling. Gently closing the lid of the trunk, he ruffles Merlin's hair as he straightens up, knocking the silver coronet on his head askew. "I'll have these moved to our chambers. Go call your bloody lizards. I went to a lot of work to get these, and I expect to be rewarded for my efforts!"

Merlin swats the royal arse as it passes, smirking at the little yelp Arthur gives.

* * *

One of the interior courtyards has been closed off for the day, and most of the servants have been dismissed as well.

There's enough space for both Kilgharrah and Aithusa to land in the courtyard, and they sit watching with reverence as Merlin opens the trunk. The eggshells glitter in the sunlight like enormous gemstones, nestled in their silk cushioning, and Merlin takes them out one at a time, setting them down gently on the cobblestones. Both Great Dragons murmur something in dragontongue and shiver, their scales rattling against each other like dry leaves skittering over marble.

Arthur tries not to squirm, forcibly holding himself still like he's a boy being made to sit through lessons again, hands clasped on his knees. The other knights—Gwaine, Percival, Leon, Elyan, and Lancelot—have asked to attend as well, and they all sit on the ground in the shade of one of the buildings, remaining as still as they can, watching raptly.

Merlin speaks in dragontongue, the words deep and guttural, nothing that a person should be able to say without hurting their throats, and Arthur's breath catches as the warlock's eyes flare gold. The air seems to shimmer and jump around him, thickening slightly. He leans in towards the closest egg, the emerald green one with darker whorls, and says a single growling word.

The egg begins to wobble a little, strange scraping noises coming from within; a hairline crack appears, bright white against the green. There's a quick tapping sound, and then a large chip breaks off, a small claw poking through before retreating, leaving a small hole. More fissures branch off from the crack, spiderwebbing over the surface. The whole egg shudders again, and then the bottom of the shell crackles and comes apart; a long tail flops out, and one hindleg. Arthur sniggers as the small toes wriggle in the open air. The other leg kicks free from the crumbling shell, and the fissure in the shell widens slightly, a muffled squeaking coming from inside as it wobbles. A bit more squirming, and it unbalances, flopping over on its side. The top half of the shell splits open on the hard stones, freeing the dragonet.

Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't realised he held, and he hears the other knights exhale with him, a tension going out of them. They had all gone tense with anticipation, and he thinks briefly that they're like expectant fathers waiting for a healthy child to be born, fighting a smile.

The dragonet licks the filmy bits of membrane off its hide, blinking wide golden eyes. Its wings are crumpled up against its back, and for a brief second, Arthur's afraid that it's crippled or deformed. But then the wings begin to twitch and unfurl, peeling up from its back. The finger bones are as slender as kindling twigs, and the sails between them are so diaphanous that Arthur can see clean through them, lined with blood vessels like spider-thread. When the wings are fully extended, the dragonet opens and closes them a few times, testing, then gains its feet, wobbling slightly. Exposed to open air, its slick hide dries off quickly and colours—a bright, vibrant green marked with darker stripes, a yellow underscore on its plated belly and throat.

The whole process takes barely ten minutes.

"A male," Merlin says with a tiny smile, reaching out to run a fingertip over the dragonet's small head. It leans up into his fingers happily, squeaking.

As the dragonet tries out its legs, taking small, toddling steps and staggering as it attempts to keep balance, Merlin carefully collects the pieces of the eggshell and sets them in a basket, then turns to the next egg, the one that looks as though it's forged of burnished steel.

One by one, the dragonets emerge from their shells. Arthur realises by the fourth egg that the word Merlin intones to make them hatch, never the same one twice, is the dragonet's name. And wonders how the hell anybody is supposed to pronounce them. Soon, the courtyard is filled with brightly-coloured dragonets, staggering around on their wobbly legs and flopping their wings about, falling over each other.

The third dragonet to hatch takes the longest. Merlin's brow furrows worriedly as it manages to chip away a hole and flops halfway out, gasping; he makes no move to help it, though his hands are clenched hard around his knees, and shoos aside the other dragonets when they try to investigate. When it finally manages to pull itself free, it lays on the ground and puffs hard, wheezing in its chest. Its hide is a pale sandy brown colour mottled with cream and black flecks, and worryingly smaller than the others, and it dries off more slowly as it licks away the shell membrane little at a time. Several more minutes pass before the dragonet manages to unfurl its wings. After a struggle, the dragonet gets its feet under it, wobbles a few steps, and then flops back down. Merlin finally reaches out to scoop it up, setting it on his lap, rubbing his hands over its sides to get circulation going.

The last one to hatch is the red-gold egg, and Arthur chortles as the dragonet suddenly tumbles out of its shell, doing an impromptu somersault onto the ground, blinking dazedly in the sudden bright light of the outside world. It's almost the same colour as its eggshell, a light shade of copper with an orangish underbelly, and there's a long, bright yellow streak on its head. He watches with fascination as the dragonet licks the clinging bits of membrane off its hide and stands up on unsteady baby legs, but then it begins to sort of gasp. "Merlin?" he says in concern as the hatchling coughs, hacking like a cat trying to cough up a hairball. The dark purple spines down its backbone vent out steam.

Suddenly, the dragonet sucks in a deep lungful of air, sides puffing out, and it exhales a thin spear of yellow flame some three feet long. It sits back on its haunches, blinking in shock at its own display, then hiccups. Arthur laughs at the look of dismay on the expressive face. Drawn by the sound, it turns to look at him with big gold eyes, then starts toddling over to him, but it hardly gets more than three steps before it trips on an uneven paver; Arthur's hand shoots out to catch it. Soft claws clench on his sleeve, and he laughs as the dragonet lifts off the ground when he raises his arm. He lets it down on his lap.

The dragonet sniffs him all over, crawling up his tunic, feet slipping against his chainmail. He laughs when it gains his shoulder and pokes its snout in his ear, huffing warm air.

"She likes you," Merlin says with a laugh, still coddling the dappled one as two others crawl over him. One has somehow managed to clamber up his back and perches on his head like a very strange looking hat. The others have gained their balance and are exploring more of the courtyard, the other knights in particular.

"She does?" Arthur tilts his head aside when the dragonet tries to get a mouthful of his hair. "Oi, can you not?" He studies the little one, round yellow eyes staring right back at him solemnly. "I like you, too. But just so you know, I cannot pronounce that name of yours, so you'll need a new one."

"Hey, you can't do that!" Merlin protests.

"Mm, but I can."

"I'm the Dragonlord here."

Arthur snorts, cradling the dragonet in one arm and rubbing behind her soft crown spines with one fingertip, and she purrs in delight. "Yes, well, I'm the Dragonlord's consort, I can do as I wish. Now what should we call you?" He runs a fingertip along the bright streak of yellow running across the right side of her head. "Hm. What about...Sunspear? That sounds good, doesn't it?" he asks, and she squeaks loudly. "I'm taking that as a yes."

_"Ar_thur!"

_"Mer_lin!" he mimics, then looks back down at the newly-dubbed Sunspear. No doubt her dragon name means something lovely, something suited to nobility, but come down to it, he simply could not say it. Human voices were not meant to speak dragontongue, as they lacked the depth of chest and range of voice to pronounce it all; only the Dragonlords, by way of their kinship to dragons, could properly say any of it. As he understands it, he's butchering the pronunciation of Kilgharrah and Aithusa's name already. There's nothing wrong with a nickname.

"Hey, no, no," Merlin exclaims. "Hands off, Gwaine, I'll not have you corrupting them!"

Arthur glances up and laughs when he sees the irrepressible knight sitting with the green dragonet in his lap, playing with his chainmail. "Whatever do you mean?" Gwaine asks innocently. "I'm just playing with the pip, not feeding it ale."

"Yet," Percival, who's holding the silver-grey one, interjects and Gwaine gives him an affronted look.

"Traitor. You hear this?" he says, looking down at the dragonet in his lap. "Traitors, the whole lot of them." He tickles its plated belly with fingertips and it squeaks, kicking its footpaws happily. "You're a chunky little fellow, aren't you? You look like a little melon. Maybe that's what we should call you, whilst we're handing out names."

_"Do not!"_ Merlin exclaims.

"Melon," Gwaine coos, petting the dragonet, and it purrs happily, snuggling against his thigh. "Little Lord Melon."

Arthur laughs aloud at the look of utter incredulity on Merlin's face. "Give it up, clotpole, you've lost this one!"

"That's my word," Merlin shoots back on reflex, then looks to Kilgharrah and Aithusa for help. "Tell them they can't do this!"

Whilst Kilgharrah looks to be just as pained by the undignified manner of his kinsmen's naming, Aithusa is clearly amused, tail thumping and shoulders wriggling. "You may give them their proper names, young warlock, but that does not mean those names must be adhered to," the old dragon replies at last.

"Ooh, saying that had to hurt," Arthur snickers.

"More than you might imagine, young king."

Leon seems awkward and somewhat uncomfortable with the blue dragon crawling up his arm, intent on investigating his hair, but he's smiling still. "Forgive me for saying it, Merlin, but I couldn't say any of those names if I tried to. I'd rather not make a mockery of their language by mangling it," he says, then winces when the dragonet succeeds in getting a mouthful of curls and yanks.

Merlin groans aloud, hands over his face; the brown one tries to shove its snout beneath his fingers. "I hate the lot of you, I hope you know this," he grumbles.

"We love you, too," Gwaine says, then looks down at his new friend. "Don't we, Melon?"

* * *

One by one, all the dragonets are given their own nicknames as their personalities begin to come through. Realising acceptance as the better part of valour, Merlin allows the knights to choose their nicknames, since the knights were present for their hatching. He finds it fitting as well—seven eggs for the seven original Knights of the Round Table. Well, Merlin's not an _actual_ knight, but he could be considered a kind of magical knight if one thinks on it. All in all, there are three males—green, gold, and dappled—and four females—copper, blue, silver, and brown.

Melon's name sticks, and much to Arthur and Merlin's dismay, he seems to have attached herself to Gwaine and could constantly be seen following him around the training fields. Gwaine, of course, takes great pride in having a dragon friend. Merlin loses his appetite for an entire day when Gwaine asks how long it'll be before Melon is big enough to ride.

The brown one with armored plates on her back and shoulders is easily excitable and energetic, and has a habit of bodily flinging herself at his playmates, resulting in more than a few bruised shins. Elyan dubs her Mace after he receives the dragonet's friendly 'greeting' on return from a patrol and upsets a weapon rack in the armoury.

The pale blue is enamored of Leon, to the knight's chagrin, and trails after him constantly. She's made no noise yet that any of them have heard, so Leon decides to call her Whisper. Merlin actually doesn't mind that one so much. She has a quiet dignity about her, so it's hardly surprising she enjoys the company of the most dignified of the knights.

Percival calls the silvery-grey one Ghost for her uncanny ability to slip away the moment nobody's eyes are on her. Merlin despairs when she vanishes from the nesting chamber on an almost nightly basis, and it's always Percival who returns her. Twice, she's inadvertently gone on patrol with the knights when she hides in their saddlebags.

The honey-coloured male attaches itself to Lancelot, and after some thought, the noble knight calls him Morning, for the colour of his hide is reminiscent of the first golden rays of dawn. Morning is more catlike than the others, winding between Lancelot's ankles and purring whenever any attention is paid to him; he also has the same capacity for mischief as a cat does.

The male with the dappled hide is most worrisome. He's smaller than all the rest, and Merlin dislikes the wheeze in the narrow chest. Despite the energy of the other dragonets, he's often listless and sleeps most hours of the day and eats little compared to the others.

Surprisingly, it's Gwen who saves him, for even a Dragonlord's magic has its limits. The dragonet falls asleep in one of the laundry baskets—a chore she no longer has to do as the wife of a knight, but does anyways—and she finds him when she's hanging up the linens to dry. Ever since Kilgharrah's assault on Camelot, she's been reluctant to be around any of the dragons. She'd forgiven the Great Dragon after a fashion, and she had been happy for Merlin when he had told her of the eggs, but she hadn't attended the hatching and doesn't express much desire to be around the dragonets. But she's never been able to turn away pitiable creatures in need of help.

She lets the dragonet sleep on the hot coals in the hearth of her and Lancelot's home and feeds him fish stew, the only thing he's eaten heartily of, and carries him around in the deep pocket of her smock when she works, for he's small enough to fit and weighs hardly anything. Within a month, he's put on some weight and is half again his hatching size. Gwen carries him around with her everywhere, letting him ride on her shoulders once he outgrows her pockets, and with her persistent affection and caretaking, he gets some life in him.

It is also how Lancelot comes to be sitting in the nesting chamber with Morning sprawling on his lap when Merlin comes by to check on the dragonets. "I've been replaced," he sighs. "Replaced, Merlin. The little one she's taken in, he's on my side of the bed, and when I go to move him, he hisses at me. Hisses. Like a little snake. I should go ahead and hand over my sword and crest now, eh? He's the man of the household now."

Merlin giggles a little as he sits down on the floor next to his friend, reaching over to run a fingertip down Morning's back ridges. "I've no doubt that Sunspear would've found a way to evict me from our bed already, Dragonlord or not. She loves Arthur like the flower loves the sun. But I don't let her sleep on our bed at all, so I cut her off at the pass."

"Why not? Does she steal blankets?" Lancelot wonders.

"Arthur does that on his own. No, but one sneeze, and the whole bed would go up in flames." Merlin shakes his head. Arthur finds it just _delightful_ that Sunspear is already gifted with a fire in her belly ("Breathing fire straight from the shell," the royal prat had said, smiling as he cradled the dragonet. "What a terror she'll turn out to be.") but Merlin is...less enthusiastic. Dragonets need time to learn to control themselves enough to manage their flame. By the time their fire is kindled, they've enough control to not set fire to their surroundings any time they're startled.

"So that's not normal? Her breathing fire right off?"

"Not really, no."

Lancelot hums contemplatively. He's learned more about dragon lore in the past two months than he has in his entire life. "She's named him Pandion. Like the hawk. He loves fish." More specifically, Gwen's fish stew.

Merlin chortles, looking at the heaped dragonets in their nest, many-coloured hides gleaming softly against each other as they breathe and snore wisps of smoke and steam. "Sunspear, Melon, Whisper, Mace, Ghost, Morning, and Pandion. The dragons of Camelot."

"Don't forget Aithusa."

"And Aithusa." Once he'd witnessed the dragonets thriving, Kilgharrah had left the kingdom and had asked Merlin not to call if he could avoid it, since he intended to travel. Merlin wonders if he's going to search for other eggs, and wishes the old beast luck. To see dragons return...

As if knowing exactly what he's thinking, Lancelot throws an arm around his shoulders and gives him a shake. "The world's a big place, Merlin. There will be more dragons to come," he reassures. "Their time is not yet done here."

"Kilgharrah once said as much to me," Merlin muses.

"Well, I'm certain he knows more than us."

"Oh, you have no idea."

* * *

The dragonets grow prodigiously in the coming months. In the wild, they would have grown more slowly, but in Camelot, never experiencing the lean months of winter or scarcity of drought and famine, they develop rapidly. By the time their first year is over, they've gone from the size of small cats to weaning foals, with all the gangly, long-legged awkwardness of foals as well. They've all started breathing proper fire now, too, and for a while, all the tapestries have to be rolled up and pinned out of the way to avoid any accidents.

Sunspear follows Arthur everywhere she can. When he sits in judgement, she'll lay beside the throne, watching with honey-coloured eyes as people bring their grievances to the King. She's first to control her fire, of course, having been in possession of it longest, and one of her favourite things to do is light the hearth in their room at night. She's allowed to sleep in their chambers now, and drapes herself across the foot of the bed, keeping them warm on even the coldest nights.

Mace doesn't lose any of her enthusiasm, but she does learn to pull up short so she doesn't break anyone's bones with a tackle greeting. Ghost outstrips all her nestmates in size; she'll likely be just as large amongst dragons as Percival is amongst normal men. Whisper holds her silence even when the others begin to speak in simple sentences, her air of wisdom only deepening with age, wise beyond her years. Morning grows up lean and lithe, more feline than reptilian at times, and his rambunctiousness gradually mellows out, though his mischievousness does not. Melon, whilst not quite matching Ghost in size, maintains a voracious appetite and remains just as playful and outgoing as Gwaine, who he stays close to. Little Pandion, however, remains quite little, though he seems healthy enough, if a bit nervous. There's still a wheeze in his chest that makes Merlin think that the dragonet's lungs didn't quite develop all the way, and he doubts that the dappled dragon will ever achieve any great size. Pandion doesn't seem to mind his small size, however, as it makes it easy for him to stay near Gwen, who's gotten past her reluctance with dragons and now spoils him rotten.

And whilst Merlin teaches them about human history and Dragonlords, Aithusa teaches them dragonlore and takes them to wing. It becomes a common sight in Camelot to look up on any warm, sunny day and see the shape of a great white dragon soaring overhead with six smaller forms trailing behind her, like a white kite with a bejeweled tail. Pandion, despite his best efforts, can do no more than glide short distances; his lungs can't sustain high-altitude flight, though he becomes a prodigious climber to make up the lack, scaling the outer walls of the citadel and prowling the roofs.

By their second year, sadly enough, the dragonets are evicted from the castle. They've grown too large to pass through most doorways, and they've demolished at least a dozen tables and chairs with their tails, apiece. With Merlin's help, though, Arthur sets aside a section of the forests for them, taken mostly from the King's Reserve, with enough room for six young dragons to live and grow, including a small lake and stream and several caves; the boundaries of their territory are marked by magic to prevent anyone from accidentally wandering too close, though they have free run of Camelot's skies. Pandion, however, is the exception; Merlin's prediction turned true, and he remains small enough to comfortably fit inside the barn on Lancelot's estate.

And Merlin, in his exploration of the many hidden passages and rooms of the citadel, finds a chamber adjacent to library full of books, not just on magic, but on dragons. Apparently once, long ago, Camelot had allied with the Dragonlords, and a select number of knights were chosen to ride dragon-back with the Dragonlord. Knights of the Air, they were called; Camelot's shield in the sky as the army was her shield on the ground. And in one of the books is an illustration, detailed down to the last rivet, of a flight harness and saddle.

The look on Arthur's face when Merlin presents him with the idea is one that the warlock will treasure all his life.

The dragonets' third year marks the reestablishment of the Knights of the Air, which causes almost as much of a stir as Arthur's lifting of the magic ban ten years ago. All in all, the dragonets are just shy of being half Kilgharrah's size (Pandion is perhaps a third) and though they'll gain a bit more in the coming decades, they won't grow much larger. Merlin employs an armourer, a saddle maker, and a leatherworker to craft the flight harnesses, weaving magic into their creation every step of the way. And because he's not one to let another test something of his own making, he has one made for Aithusa—he's never used any harness before, since his magic _is_ his harness—and goes on a series of acrobatic flights with her to ensure it all hold up to the strain of her twisting and turning.

Gwaine, naturally, is the first to volunteer when Merlin declares them flight-ready, and he's almost bouncing with excitement. So is Melon, and Merlin has to order him to be still in order to fasten all the straps, walking the knights through the process as he goes. Melon hardly even waits for Gwaine to properly get himself rigged up before flinging himself upwards with remarkable speed despite his bulk, and they can all hear Gwaine screaming, though whether it's from terror or glee is yet to be seen. When the green dragonet reluctantly comes back to the ground, his two-legged friend is beaming from ear to ear and is shaking so much he falls right out of the harness once he unhooks himself.

Not to be outdone by one of his own knights, Arthur volunteers next, and Sunspear obediently holds still for her harness to be put on and takes flight with more restraint than Melon had. And when he lands, the king is a bit green around the gills but smiling. Merlin is gracious enough to help him down so he doesn't fall out of the harness as Gwaine had.

The only one who manages to keep his feet upon landing is, unsurprisingly, Percival.

Ghost is noticeably smug.

* * *

At least once in a month, Arthur sets aside his kingly duties for a day to spend time in the Dragon Reserve with Merlin. There's a clearing beside the north edge of the small lake where the dragonets sun themselves, and it's also an ideal place to host a small picnic.

"How is Pandion?" Sunspear asks, managing to speak without moving her jaw overmuch and disturbing Arthur, who's sitting beside her head and scratching beneath her crown spines with one hand, a book in the other. Both king and dragonet had mourned the day she grew too big to be carried in his arms, but she can now fit him in the palm of her foreclaw with ease.

"He's himself," Arthur chuckles; the small dragon is somewhat abrasive to everyone that isn't Gwen, though he is at least polite to Arthur, Merlin, and the other Knights of the Air.

"Does he like Guinevere and Lancelot's hatchling?"

Merlin laughs from his position on the ground, his head cushioned against Arthur's thigh. "He's completely helpless. Sorella had him eating out of her little hand from day one," he snickers. Not that he's any different. Just about everyone who meets Sorella is helpless against her one-dimpled smile and infectious laugh, and even Leon had been caught playing peekaboo. "Are Merlin and Gwaine back yet?"

"Yes, they gained Camelot's border this morning."

Arthur shakes his head. "Have you heard what they're calling him now in some of the outer provinces?" he asks, then answers himself, "Sir Gwaine the Green Knight. Can you believe it? As if he needs any more reason to make a menace of himself, now he's got a name to live up to. Or however he spins it." He shakes his head with a huff. "Still can't believe I knighted him, somedays."

Sunspear chortles from the depths of her chest, snorting; her hot breath wilts and browns the grass in front of her muzzle. Arthur sets aside his book and leans his head against her neck, eyes closing as he drags his fingers through Merlin's hair. Though at six years old, she's achieved nearly her full adult size and is easily as large as a barn, she will always be Arthur's dragonet, and he can still see her no bigger than a housecat, attacking his boots and getting one stuck on her head.

Under his hand, Merlin's head tilts to the side as the warlock opens his eyes, cocking his head as if listening to a voice only he can hear.

"Merlin?" Arthur murmurs drowsily, half-opening one eye.

"It's Aithusa. She's flying the borders again. She..." He tilts his head again, then smiles. "She says Kilgharrah's returned."

"Oh, joy," the blond deadpans, then squawks indignantly when Merlin pinches his thigh.

Both men and dragon sit up and look upwards, scanning the sky for the old one. Sunspear sights him first, with her keener vision; it takes several more seconds before Arthur and Merlin are able to see Kilgharrah's shape flying towards them, no bigger than a fleck of sand at first but growing larger and larger. Arthur frowns. "Has he hurt his leg?" he asks, seeing how the old dragon has one foreleg tucked in close to his chest as an injured animal might.

Merlin's frowning too. "I don't think so. He doesn't seem to be in distress at all."

Kilgharrah swoops downward and alights on the grass with a grace belying his years. His left foreleg is drawn up to his chest, but now Merlin can see that he isn't injured, he's carrying something, what looks like a bundle of canvas and rope. "Young warlock, young king," he greets, then growls out Sunspear's draconic name; she inclines her head gracefully. "Your kingdom has thrived in my absence, and the balance is nearly healed once more. I am proud to have lived to see it."

"You played your part in that, old one," Merlin replies fondly. "What's that you have?"

Kilgharrah hums in his deep chest. "My final gift to this world, young warlock, for my time has come to depart it," he replies, his voice heavy not with sorrow, but with a dignified acceptance, and for the first time, Arthur can see the bright shadow that lays over the Great Dragon, the same darklight of the veil between worlds. He places a hand against the small of Merlin's back. He might not like the old dragon very much, but he knows his consort is impossibly fond of Kilgharrah.

Merlin takes a shuddering breath, head bowed for a moment. "I will miss you, old friend," he says at last, swiping a hand over his eyes and looking up. "And it will be an empty world without you."

Kilgharrah sets the rope-bound bundle on the grass, then lowers his head until his chin nearly touches the grass. Merlin steps forward and rests a hand on the rough-scaled muzzle. For a moment, they are both silent, yet Arthur knows they are communicating in their own way. After a span of heartbeats, the warlock lowers his hand, steps back, and addresses him in dragontongue. Kilgharrah bows his head, then backs away and opens his wings, taking flight.

Arthur isn't surprised when Sunspear gently nudges him away and takes to air. Further off, he can see the other dragonets rising into the sky as well, with Aithusa in the lead, directly behind Kilgharrah. They'll escort the old dragon to Camelot's borders but no further and mourn him in their way. As the distant sound of dragonsong reaches his ears, he puts an arm around Merlin's waist. "Shall we see what he's left us?"

Merlin nods, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes, and they walk across the grass to the canvas bundle. The whole thing is bound up with loops of thick, tough rope and a great many knots. As Arthur debates whether or not it'd be feasible to try cutting the rope with his sword, Merlin finds the edge of the canvas and peeks underneath. And all at once, despite the tears still on his lashes, he begins to laugh.

"What? What is it?" Arthur queries, puzzled by the sudden shift in mood.

Wordlessly, Merlin waves a hand, eyes shimmering gold; the complicated knots slither apart, the ropes uncoiling neatly, and the bundled canvas falls open on the grass. And Arthur can't help but laugh as well.

Eggs. Kilgharrah's final gift is no fewer than two dozen dragon eggs of all sort: smooth as glass and ridged like scales; half again the breadth of a man's chest and no bigger than a fist; pearlescent white and inky black; solid colour and wild patterns.

"Six years," Arthur chortles, crouching on his heels and reaching out to run his fingertips over an egg that's the size of his fist, so small and yet warm to the touch. "He could have very well flown to the ends of the world and back again for these."

"Might do," Merlin laughs, looking for all the world like he simply wants to crawl into the middle of the pile and simply lay there. "Oh, Arthur. Where would we even start?"

"Wherever you wish, Dragonlord." Arthur moves closer and once more curls an arm around his consort, drawing him close against his side, and he presses his lips to Merlin's temple. "We have all the time in the world."


End file.
